


let the only sound be the overflow

by mostlikelydefinentlymad



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Author abuses metaphors, Declarations Of Love, M/M, Metaphors, No Angst, POV Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock's Mind Palace, based on the new trailer, no Parent!Lock, only background mentions of Mary, season 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-11
Updated: 2016-12-11
Packaged: 2018-09-07 20:53:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8815909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mostlikelydefinentlymad/pseuds/mostlikelydefinentlymad
Summary: John's smile fades as he kicks at the water around him. It sparkles in the faint darkness and at this angle it almost looks like starlight. The universe, Sherlock thinks. And John is the center of it. An entire system orbiting one man.





	

Water dries from the tap, the oceans swallow air, children tug on their mothers shirts with tears in their eyes.

 

"...it was there, Mummy. Charles was jumping and it...it," a small child sniffles as she points to a dry patch of grass. Not a single blade can attest to her story.

A postman stoops to examine pavement where he'd dropped an open bottle of water only seconds before. He drops to his knees and begins to pray.

An anchorwoman on the evening news struggles to contain her panic as she reports of what many are calling a cursed miracle. All of London is brimming with conspiracy and grief but Sherlock hears them only as minuscule background noise.

 

Inside of 221B, John's chair is empty. The kettle smells of jasmine, his favorite jumper is lying on the far left end of the sofa and the table by his chair still holds his cup and saucer. Next to it, his mobile rests, abandoned. Sherlock begins to rifle through drawers and under furniture though he's not entirely sure what he's searching for. He'll know it when he gets to it, it has to be like that.

"Where _is_ it?" He growls, tossing books behind him; nails digging into their spines as he hurls them.

A dusty medical book titled _Hot Lights, Cold Steel_ catches his eye. He snags it and quickly flips through the pages until a page with a folded paper splays the book open.

"John. I'm coming, John!," he calls to the empty flat.

He takes the steps two at a time, hails a taxi (ignores the drivers blathering about the end of the world) and ends up two cities over in the midst of a wooded area. Thickets of trees and bushes cover the area as tendrils of branches reach out, much like hands eager to knock him off course.

The trees swallow up his voice as he calls John's name, stumbling over tree roots and dying plant life. Five minutes and twenty four seconds after arrival, he comes upon a well that would easily blend in with another era far from this place.

 

"SHERLOCK," comes a voice, echoing over rocks.

John.

John is in the well.

Surely there's no water there, he'll be safe.

Sherlock hastily peers over the side and his heart aches to see a familiar smile. John appears tired and dirty but he's _here._ Alive. In...water?

"John!"

John's smile fades as he kicks at the water around him. It sparkles in the faint darkness and at this angle it almost looks like starlight. The universe, Sherlock thinks. And John is the center of it. An entire system orbiting one man.

"Some help here would be nice. Surely there's something in that mind palace of yours," he says.

The molar mass of water is 18.01528 g/mol -- insufficient. Not helpful right now. Sherlock grips the side of his head, **focus**.

The largest ocean on Earth is the Pacific Ocean -- **NO.**

 

Ripe. Strong. A ladder. An organic rope. There must be something around here. His eye catches on a particularly thick band of roots lying about not two feet away. It should be long enough.

"We're going to have to work together," he says. He remembers hearing the exact same words from John's lips, rushed and panting; so many years ago. He won't lose John here, Mary will not find them here. They will not become fugitives, never again.

John nods, taking hold of the root. He begins to balance himself along the slippery stones. It's a rough go at first, gradually becoming steeper toward the top. Under John, the water appears darker. Sinister. Much like the woman who calls herself Mary Watson, Jim Moriarty's right hand man. Shes been on the run, hiding her trail effortlessly.

This, the water, darkness without the sun.

"Almost there," Sherlock huffs.

John's feet slip and in that brief second, Sherlock feels his heart lurch. If John were to fall, he would be sure to follow. If they were to die, they would do it together. There's a certain sentiment to that but Sherlock can't quite put his finger on it.

"JOHN!"

John regains his balance and grunts. " 'mm fine, Sherlock. Don't let go."

It's an odd request. Given the choice, in any universe, he would never let go of John's hand. He wouldn't even have to think about it, much less consider it.

"Not you, John Watson. I could never let you go," he murmurs. It comes out far too intimate - a solid fact, a confession.

One more good pull and John is a fish out of water. He collapses along the hard ground and he's --

Laughing.

 

"Happy to know my display of sentiment is entertaining," Sherlock huffs. He draws his knees up against his chest much like a scorned child. There is no rule book on how to respond to ones best friend and flat mate when they reveal something particularly damning but he's positive that, if there were, laughing at them would not be in it.

"Sherlock. No, just...Sherlock," John laughs. He gets a hand around Sherlock's wrist and tugs him to the ground.

John sobers, clears his throat. "You don't do sentiment is all and you-that...it was nice."

"I meant it," Sherlock replies. He has never meant anything more in his life.

John sighs, smiling in a way that seems out of place; unfamiliar. "...Funny, that. I had to nearly die for you to speak up."

"About what?" He covers his eyes, effectively blocking out both versions of the sun. John is confusing. He's ridiculous.

"Your feelings."

London is in the midst of a crisis and he wants to talk about _feelings._ Typical John getting caught up in emotion.

"Yes, John. I'm _frustrated_. It took ages to find you and London is without a single molecule of water right now. GOD. Where's Mrs. Hudson when you need her? I could use a cup of tea."

John sits up, crossing his legs at the ankle. "You care for me, Sherlock Holmes. Would it kill you to admit it? I could've drowned and you're on about tea which, by the way, wouldn't even be possible."

The sudden change in mood could give a man whiplash if physical ailment at mere words were even remotely possible.

"You're alive aren't you?," Sherlock says, pitch rising.

 

John begins to pace, irritated. He takes several deep breaths before speaking once more. "I...Sherlock. I can't...I'm not good at this. Dammit, I love you. You can be such a prick at times, most of the time actually, and God only knows why I can't walk away but I'm still here. Right where you left me; in this godforsaken well. I had to wait for _you_ to come to _me,_ Sherlock. Do you have any idea how long its taken us to get here?"

The well; a safe space disguised as the opposite. A place in which he'd stored John where the world couldn't hurt him, couldn't take him. All the while he'd been rushing about searching for answers when they were there all along - he'd known the path for quite some time, had walked it bare foot and hollow. Of course he'd been able to rescue John easily, Sherlock had left himself a lifeline. A second chance.

He stands and turns his back to John, inhales. Exhales, "I love you."

John's voice lowers, anger dwindling into something softer. "And I wouldn't have left you even if I could've, I- Wait. _W_ _hat did you say_?"

Tears prick at the corner of Sherlock's eyes. He feels lighter, buoyant. "I'm sorry."  Two words cannot undo every Could have, Should have, Why didn't we -- but it's a start.

"Sherlock," John whispers. Foliage rustles as he makes his way over. He palms his best friends shoulder and turns him around until they're facing one another. When it happens, they do not speak. These are the moments words cannot capture.

Sherlock stands, trembling, and allows himself to be touched. John's thumb edges under a shirt sleeve and brushes against the racing pulse there. He leans in close and nuzzles Sherlock's nose with his own. John is close enough to kiss and Sherlock is aching for it. "There's nothing to forgive."

They move together silently -- the tilt of a chin, jawline angling to the right. When they kiss, it begins to rain.

Later, on the ten o'clock news, an anchor proudly announces that all water has returned and the loss is under investigation.

London rejoices.

+

 

"Sherlock. Wake up. No he hasn't taken anything, Mycroft?"

Mycroft raises an eyebrow, "He has not."

Sherlock wakes to a palm cupping his cheek and wide blue eyes. "He's awake. You're awake. Sherlock, can you speak? You've been out cold for two hours. We were-- Mary has been caught. Yesterday, in fact. Mycroft's informant was delayed."

Sherlock blinks, vision blurry. "It was raining...did you feel it John? The water -- London had none but I found you. And the well, John. I left you there but I said...I told you I'd never let you go. I won't -- I can't."

John's forehead furrows, puzzled. He has yet to remove his hand. "I'm not going anywhere."

Mycroft walks away, speaking into his phone about discombobulation and requiring medical care. He briefly mentions "the assassin" and "You are to see to it that she never steps foot in London ever again. If such a thing occurs, know that your existence can be easily wiped from the Earth with the touch of a button. Are we clear?"

He continues on, speaking harshly, shoes clicking along the stairs with each step.

"I said it, John. I meant it."

Those three words are never easier to say but he had. He'd confronted the elephant in the room, had allowed the water to flow freely around them - a tap turned on inside of him.

"What's that?"

Sherlock takes a surprised John's hand and kisses the knuckles. "I love you." They're safe within the walls of 221B and any threats to John's well being are being taken care of, courtesy of the British government himself. The need to hide John both from himself and Mary is no more.

Rain begins to gently tap at the window.

John coughs. "That's...that's um. Well. It seems I suffer from the same affliction." He laughs and squeezes Sherlock's hand. "I do, you know. I do love you."

They kiss and somewhere in Sherlock's mind palace, a bubbling spring pours clear pure water over soft stones.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope this doesn't come across as really confusing. it's all in Sherlock's mind palace and he placed MP John there to protect him, to keep Mary from hurting/killing him. And hiding him from himself because he's not a safe bet, he'll only cause John pain in one way or another but then it gets to the point that he can't do it anymore. He doesn't have the strength. He has to find John and tell him before things are too late - if he can't do it in real life at least they can have *something* in this world he built for them.
> 
> (also: water = John as an essential element that keeps Sherlock going, that makes London come to life. Without him it's nothing but lights and chaos. Without him, Sherlock's world falls apart)
> 
> (inspired by the new s4 trailer)


End file.
